


Through the Hollow Reeds

by azure_horizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure_horizon/pseuds/azure_horizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can’t get Irene Adler out of his head; John can’t get Sherlock Holmes out of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Hollow Reeds

**Author's Note:**

> Written before we even knew the titles of season two’s episode; it’s been sitting gathering dust on my hard drive so I thought I’d let it out for some fresh air.

“I can't get her out of my head.”

The admission sounds like John had forcibly ripped it out of him and John's heart freezes a little (a lot) at it. He's not sure why because he'd known it to be the truth ever since they'd met Irene Adler six weeks previous. He'd watched as Sherlock had danced around her, how he'd shown off for her during their meetings; he'd watched as Sherlock slowly withdrew (not noticeable at first, except that John has been looking for it for some time), as he'd checked his phone over and over, watched as he smiled at texts, watched as he drifted off to sleep in John's bed – distracted. Distant. 

John had asked, quietly, sincerely;

“You... want her, don't you?”

And Sherlock had looked agonised, his features twisting and contorting as he tried to hide the truth from them, as he tried to pull himself together enough to lie to John, to tell John the truth and John's chest... Oh, God. It hurt. 

And John knows it's been ridiculous of him to believe that he could ever possibly be the only one that Sherlock could ever want. Just because he _had_ been until that point didn't mean it was going to continue that way. And it hadn't; Irene Adler had come along and John would rather Sherlock was merely attracted to her but he can see the way that Sherlock is interested, the way that he can't help but obsess over every movement of the criminal. And that hurts because John knows that he's not as interesting as that. Yes, Sherlock finds him attractive. And yes, in his own way, Sherlock loves him. But Sherlock doesn't find him interesting. It's the one thing that John has always known that he can't give Sherlock. 

“That's... fine. It's-”

“No!” Sherlock growls, his lips twisting into an unattractive snarl and John is surprised by the vehemence there. “It is _not_ 'fine'. I should not- It's not- I can't.”

“Sherlock it's-”

“No!”

John hesitates, gaze raking over Sherlock, taking in the twisted battle that he can see so clearly on Sherlock's face: one half wants to believe John, wants to accept that it's fine that John thinks it's fine; the other half, knowing it's not true, that it's not fine. That he's hurting John. 

That hurts John. He's not an obligation. He shouldn't be. 

He sinks to the floor in front of the chair Sherlock is contorted in, his hands covering his face. It's an awkward fit, between the chair and the coffee table and John finds that ironic enough that he has to laugh. He looks skywards, drags his hands down his face and stares at Sherlock. Who looks panicked, frantic. John curls a hand around a thin calf and Sherlock stills, staring at the bottom of John's chin. 

“Look,” John sighs some long moments later, after he's retracted his hand and Sherlock's terrified expression has returned. John hates seeing him like this. “Do you want to have sex with her?” Sherlock hesitates and John looks up to him, “Instant and honest answer, Sherlock. Do you want to have sex with her?”

Sherlock nods, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.

“Yes.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “But-”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stares at him. John can feel it; can feel the gaze settle over him at the same time the preternatural calm does and he knows that this has to happen. It's this or his entire relationship with Sherlock and while he really, really doesn't want to share Sherlock... he will. So he can keep him in the long run.

“Okay? John how is that okay? I-”

“It doesn't mean you love me any less.” Sherlock stares at him and John raises an imploring eyebrow, to which Sherlock nods infinitesimally. “Then...”

“Not without you.”

John looks up at that, his neck straining at the speed of the movement and his jaw locks tightly.

“What?”

“I...” Sherlock swallows. “I don't want to do it without you.”

Despite John's mental shock his body has stirred in response to Sherlock's words.

“You want to have a threesome... me, you and Irene Adler?” Sherlock's nod is more of a shaky jerk, his eyes scouring John's features and John tries not to show anything because he's not sure exactly what it is he is actually feeling. “Why?” Sherlock levels him with a stare. “Okay but... why?”

He can't comprehend it. Since Irene, Sherlock has barely touched him. In fact, John was pretty sure Sherlock would never touch him again – it was only hope that made him believe that Sherlock would come back to him after one night with Adler. And knowing that Sherlock... he's not sure he wants Sherlock touching him when John's not sure that it's his body Sherlock is thinking about. And that's unkind; it's a misrepresentation of Sherlock because John knows that Sherlock loves him; that Sherlock wants him but...

“Okay.”

–

They don't see or hear from Irene Adler for another eight weeks and things between Sherlock and John are more than a bit not good. Sherlock's moods are intolerable and John has stayed over at Lestrade's, at Harry's, hell even at Mike's more than he's stayed in Baker Street. When he gets back, Sherlock is apologetic and guilty and John hates it but whenever he broaches the subject of a break, Sherlock gets this kicked puppy look that pulls at John's heartstrings and he stays, until the next bout of arguments and it's just a vicious cycle.

And then he comes back from work one afternoon and Irene is on the couch and Sherlock is beside her, in her space and John pauses just outside the door but he knows both know that John is there. Sherlock turns to him, his neck craned around so he can see John over the back of the couch and John moves into the doorway. Sherlock's look is intent, focussed and John tries not to linger on the way that his hair is rumpled, the way that his lips are a little too red. 

There's ice in his chest. 

“John...”

It takes a moment (during which he quells the stinging in his eyes, fights down the blockage in his throat) but he nods, shifts and it's all Sherlock needs before he is over Irene, her long fingers appearing at the back of Sherlock's neck, the tips disappearing into his rampant curls. John just watches for a few long moments, notes how well they fit together – how their slim bodies shift together, how their pale skin complements the other and tries not to compare. 

It only takes a moment for Sherlock to note John's absence, for him to pull back and twist his body so he can see John. Irene peers around his chest and John looks at her, her tightly knotted curls falling around her face and there was a time when John wouldn't even have hesitated. 

“John?” Sherlock whispers tentatively and he looks so torn, so anguished that John can't help but smile tightly and shed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Sherlock smiles, clambers up from his position over Adler's body and pulls John to him, their mouths meeting in a familiar kiss. 

He tastes.. different. 

John's not sure he likes it. 

But it's Sherlock and he is warm and pliant and familiar, and he purrs when John draws his blunt nails across his jawline and into his neck and John smirks. Then there's another set of hands sliding between Sherlock and John's chest and John is startled, his eyes open and he sees Irene lower her lips to the nape of Sherlock's neck, her fingers deftly unbuttoning the maroon shirt that John loves so much. John watches again, his kiss ceasing and Sherlock drops his lips to John's neck, his fingers weaving underneath John's jumper and shirt to find warm skin and John is pulled into him, pulled into the sensation of Sherlock's touch on him.

“This...” Sherlock murmurs against John's neck, “would be best relocated to the bed.”

John pulls back, nods and takes Sherlock's hand and leads the way to Sherlock's bedroom (he can't, he just can't have this happen in their bedroom up the stairs) and he can hear the tell tale sound of clothes hitting the floor. He glances behind him and Sherlock has stalled, is watching Irene as she slowly strips off her bra and shimmies out of her pants. John glances down Sherlock's body, notices the definite bulge in his trousers and John's body shows it's first sign of interest. 

Sherlock turns then, his smile unsure and John quirks his mouth up in a half smile. He musters some enthusiasm and pulls his shirt and jumper over his head and when he can see again, Irene is plastered to Sherlock's back and Sherlock's eyes are on him, needy, greedy and wanting. John's groin tightens and he closes his eyes, lets himself drift off into the sensation for a few moments before he opens them again and motions to the bed. 

Sherlock steps away from Irene, turns to her and urges her back towards the bed. John hangs back, watching as Sherlock's fingers skim down her waist, how they settle in the dip of her hip and then lower, over her firm bum. John bites his lip, twitches slightly and Sherlock looks back to him, holds out a hand for John to take and he does, is drawn into this complete and utter mindfuck that should be a fantasy but isn't because it hurts too much. 

He can't touch Irene. So he settles in behind Sherlock, skimming his hands flat down Sherlock's chest, to his waistband where he undoes the belt and zip and slides to his knees behind Sherlock, drawing the soft material down the taller man's legs as he goes. His lips find the soft skin behind Sherlock's knees and he licks, blows air there and Sherlock's knees buckle slightly. There's a hand in John's hair, too short to be Sherlock's and John glances up to see Irene watching him with hooded eyes. He lowers his lids and nuzzles into the back of Sherlock's thigh, his fingertips dancing over the hairs of the other, up until he can urge Sherlock forward with a hand on his back. 

John's more than aware that Sherlock's the only one who has said anything, and even then only John's name and an instruction to move. 

John's more than aware that he still has his jeans and shoes on.

Sherlock settles on top of Irene, slightly to the right and his leg slides between hers and Irene moans quietly as her head drops back, her neck exposed. Sherlock accepts the invitation, his lips seeking out the delicate splay of bones and muscles and John can't help but close his eyes, take a breath and step back. 

He can't do this. 

He can't watch Sherlock do this.

“I...”

“John,” Sherlock sounds frantic again and he has pulled away from Irene but John shakes his head, holds his hand up and steps back again, and he can feel the doorjamb hit his shoulder.

“No, Sherlock. Stay. Do this. You want to. I... I'll be back. Later.”

His last image of Sherlock for nearly two weeks is of Sherlock lurching off the bed, his features drawn into an expression so distraught that it plagues John's dreams for nights to come. 

–

He torments himself, in the single bed at his parents' house, with images of what Sherlock and Irene got up to once he left. He doesn't mean to but the images arise unbidden in his mind every time he loses focus slightly and Sherlock is buried deep in Irene, bareback and loving it, calling her name as he thrusts into her – fucking her, worshipping her. Irene's nails scrape down Sherlock's back, her lips leave purple bruises on his neck and collarbones. They do it more than once, ten times. Fifty. They love it. Sherlock doesn't think of John.

Except John doesn't _know_ any of this. And he can't imagine Sherlock... He _can_ but it doesn't fit.

It doesn't make it any easier to go back to Baker Street. So he doesn't. And his phone is on the downstairs sideboard, where he'd left it and his keys when he'd walked in to see Irene and Sherlock on the couch almost two weeks before. 

“John?” His mum calls and John feels like a teenager again, alone and ridiculous, tucked up in his single bed. “There's breakfast on the table. Your dad and I are going to head to the nursery to pick up a few plants for the garden.”

John calls down in the affirmative and hauls himself out of bed. He's not entirely sure how he'd ended up deciding to come to his parents'. He hadn't even come here when he'd gotten back from Afghanistan. But Matlock is a long way away from London.

He's an idiot. He scrubs at his face and heads down to the breakfast fry up that his mother still insists upon on a Sunday. He smiles at it, still steaming slightly and drops into the chair at the table. 

While he's eating, he thinks about Sherlock, and breakfast in Baker Street. He thinks about the time that Sherlock had refused to eat unless John hand fed the pieces of breakfast to him, how John had laughed every time that Sherlock licked the tips of his fingers, how the playful atmosphere had quickly turned hot and heady when Sherlock drew John's finger into his mouth and proceeded to fellate the digit, his eyes closing in delight while he moaned deep in his chest. John hadn't been able to keep quiet after that and they'd had sex right there on the kitchen floor. He thinks about how Sherlock had cut up his portions into manageable sizes one time when John had sprained both wrists fighting against his kidnap bonds and massaged his shoulders while John ate. He thinks of quiet mornings reading the newspapers and sharing a cup of coffee and stealing bites from each other's plates. 

The domesticity of it still astounds him, at times. 

And, he thinks viciously, Irene Adler could never give Sherlock that. Not like John could. 

He's thought a lot over the past fortnight. Thought about what he wants from Sherlock. He'd never had to think about it before because, as Sherlock had told him, he'd been the only one. He had never had to worry about Sherlock straying because Sherlock never even so much as looked at another human being as anything other than a piece of evidence to be deduced and then discarded.

Until, of course, Irene Adler. 

John can understand the draw. The woman is ethereally gorgeous in a way simultaneously similar and dissimilar to Sherlock – both are tall and wiry, with pale skin but where Sherlock's hair is dark, Irene's is auburn and shimmers gold in rays of reflected sun. She's also incredibly intelligent, and crafty and the only criminal so far to outwit Sherlock (even Moriarty's crimes were, at the heart of it, pedestrian and easy to follow) but Sherlock has done his research and while Irene hasn't built a criminal empire, her touch is widely felt. 

She should be in jail.

Sherlock had let her go free.

And then invited her to their flat for a fucking session. Or, rather, a session of fucking.

John bats the thought away. 

Sherlock is an addict. John knows this. It's easy for Sherlock to become obsessed and he wonders how long his obsession with Irene Adler will last, if it will wane like his obsession with QI, like his obsession with moths. John comforts himself with the knowledge that while Sherlock is enamoured by him, he's not _obsessed_ with him. Not in the same way, not like that. 

It's a bittersweet revelation because John wants to be Sherlock's obsession. He wants to be all that Sherlock can think about because Sherlock is both John's obsession and his anchor. 

He doesn't want Sherlock to feel _obligated_. He wants Sherlock not to want Irene Adler because he wants John so much; he doesn't want Sherlock to not want Irene Adler for the simple fact that he was with John first. 

And it's a quandary that won't be solved by sitting in his parents’ house, hundreds of miles from home. 

–

The flat, on his return, is a mess. It's also empty. 

He thinks about tidying it up but decides that he can't be bothered. He has a shower instead, stands under the warm water until it runs cold and when he steps out, he stares at himself in the mirror for a long, long while. 

He wonders why he stays. 

In the bedroom, he stands in front of the wardrobe, stares at the mixture of his and Sherlock’s clothes. Sherlock’s tailored suits and shirts hang in a separate wardrobe downstairs (wrapped in their garment bags, of course) but his more casual attire mingles with John’s. John fingers Sherlock’s jeans, a cardigan that he couldn’t believe Sherlock owned (but it’s cashmere, so soft) and there’s an over-the-door hook where their dressing gowns hang. 

He dresses quickly, ignores the rumpled bed behind him (it had been made when he’d left, meaning Sherlock has slept in it since) and heads down the stairs for some tea. There’s no milk (of course. The bread is stale, too) so he settles for some jasmine tea and drinks it at the table in the living room. 

He knows what he has to do; he just needs Sherlock here to do it. 

\--

He’s not left waiting for long. He hears the door open downstairs, hears the silence that tells him Sherlock has paused and then Sherlock is coming up the stairs, only slightly faster than normal. When he opens the door to 221B, it ricochets off the wall with a bang and Sherlock stands in the doorway for a beat too long. 

“John-“

“Sherlock-“

They say at the same time and they both pause, stare at each other and then Sherlock is in the room, pulling John up from his seat. John lets himself be enveloped in the hug, even though he knows it will only make things more difficult in the long run. Eventually Sherlock realises that John is passive and he draws back and John’s stomach is heavy and cold at the sight of Sherlock’s face. 

He can’t do this.

“You can’t do this.” Sherlock states and John looks down, steps back. “No. I won’t let- You can’t leave me.”

“Listen-“

“No. I didn’t sleep with her.”

“You wanted to, though.”

“Yes but I didn’t.”

John sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Sherlock.” Sherlock moves to interrupt but John holds up his hand and Sherlock is quiet. “Let’s sit down.” Once they are seated (John in his armchair, Sherlock on the coffee table), John’s nerve wavers again. “I…” He looks away to the mantelpiece, to the small collection of books piled next to the skull. “I can’t do this, Sherlock. I want out.”

He’s said it. It’s out there. It’s done. The strangest thing is, he doesn’t feel like he wants to claw the words back into his throat. He feels lighter, freer. 

He can do this.


End file.
